


Indulgences

by sapphicstanzas



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Mafia AU, Power Dynamics, Requested fic, Russian Mafia, Sparring, continuation of the ivory and gold canon but can b read alone, mention of a praise kink, no content warnings this time around, this is so so overdue im so sorry, yakuza yuuri/bratva viktor, yuuri's perspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 21:39:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11906733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicstanzas/pseuds/sapphicstanzas
Summary: “I think,” Yuuri said tightly, “that you're very invested in your rewards for one who hasn't even accomplished anything yet.”“A good businessman always considers the future,” Viktor said contemplatively. “And I'm an optimist, Katsuki Yuuri."-Viktor Nikiforov is a fantastic sparring partner. Not as laudable a child-appropriate mentor, admittedly, but Yuuri works with it, if only for his own sake.





	Indulgences

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ahumanlady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahumanlady/gifts).



"You're not paying attention.”

Viktor Nikiforov’s eyes were bright. His tipped his head forward teasingly. “Which one of us, darling?” He gestured from himself to Yuri Plisetsky, sitting cross-legged at the edge of the mat. Yuuri maintained his disapproving expression.

“You. Viktor. Be cooperative for once, please.”

Really, it was not Viktor’s fault. Yuuri had gotten a bit carried away, had noticed only belatedly when Viktor had tapped out, had perhaps thrown him a bit too hard and held him a big too long, and the latter’s focus had suffered for it. He blinked too quickly, and his smirk was too sloppy for full awareness. Thus, Yuuri tried looking apologetic, then stern. Neither expression did much to banish this distraction.

“I disagree,” Viktor murmured. Dazed as he was, he still found the focus to express appreciation for Yuuri’s body. His eyes lingered in particular on his chest. “I’m playing plenty of attention.”

“This is a demonstration.” Yuuri felt it when he flushed. He hoped their young audience would mistake it for exhaustion, and not anything else. “You can pay plenty of attention to those matters later.”

Viktor’s eyebrows shot up in delighted surprise. “Is that a promise?”

Yuuri stepped away from him, smothered the embarrassment by closing his eyes and stretching his arms above his head. Something shifted in his back, the cracking sound heralding a pleasurable type of pain. They’d been at this a while. Yuuri’s chest, his shoulders, were slick with sweat. His muscles ached. But the motivation to continue far outweighed the exhaustion heavy in his limbs.

Katsuki Yuuri’s motivation was plainly this: Viktor Nikiforov was a fantastic sparring partner. Not as laudable a child-appropriate mentor, admittedly, but Yuuri worked with it, if only for his own sake. Giacometti tended to grab his ass too much for the sparring session to be either productive or educational, and Yuuri did not want to be held responsible for crushing his windpipe in the heat of the moment. Purely by accident, obviously.

“Pin me more than twice,” Yuuri vowed quietly, “and you can have whatever you’d like.”

Yuuri knew what drove a man like Viktor Nikiforov. He also knew the possibility of Viktor pinning him even once was damn near a pipe dream.

But that was precisely what made the look on his face so damn satisfying. Impossibility was nothing more than another challenge to Nikiforov, and Yuuri loved to see him inspired.

Fingers closed lightly around his wrists, still stretched above his head. Viktor unlaced his fingers and drew Yuuri’s wrists downward too gently for company. Yuuri felt that blush return with a vengeance. He opened his mouth in order to protest, as Viktor began to trace the angle of Yuuri’s jaw with his own mouth. “Oh, don't _tease_ me so, Yuuri,” he murmured, and Yuuri jerked his head backwards in flustered surprise.

“Task at _hand_ ,” he snapped, but it was lacking vitriol. And Yuuri felt himself beginning to smile, against his own resolve. He molded the unwanted honesty into a more acceptable smirk. “You have yet to beat me, darling. Don’t claim your rewards just yet.”

Viktor hummed lazily, tipping his head back and resting his chin on Yuuri’s head in a manner for which he was truthfully not tall enough to manage. It was a possessive move, and Yuuri allowed it only long enough to make pointed eye contact with Yuri Plisetsky at the edge of the mat. The twelve-year-old looked characteristically disgusted, and incredibly bored.

Then Yuuri twisted, driving his shoulder into Viktor’s chest and using his weight to flip him over his back, and when Viktor landed hard on his ass on the mat and gasped--” _Yuuri_ , that’s hardly _fair”_ \--in petulant surprise, Yuri Plisetsky finally looked delighted.

“How do you do _that?”_ he demanded, sitting up with newfound interest. Yuuri was breathing laboriously, but he spared him a gentle laugh.

“You’re a bit young for that.” He offered Viktor a hand, pulling his to his feet and flush against him easily. Yuuri’s hand lingered between his slick shoulder blades, and Viktor murmured something breathless and gloriously inappropriate in his ear. “And I’m hardly qualified to teach--do you ever _stop?”_

“No.” Viktor’s lips were in his hair, then against his temples, the curve of his ear, the line of his throat. “Indulge me.”

“We have an _audience,”_ Yuuri hissed, truthfully annoyed. Viktor was a single-minded creature. This was not the place. But Yuuri knew by now that he could only combat Viktor’s advances with his own trademarks. Dropping his voice low, Yuuri added, “And you haven't earned it.”

“Oh, then _let_ me earn it, _please.”_ It was halfway in jest, but his smirk and the catch to his voice was still wholly inappropriate for Plisetsky’s witnessing. He had been spending too much time with Giacometti again. Everything tended toward innuendo nowadays. “I’m entirely at your mercy, aren't I?” Somehow, his hand had slipped from the back of Yuuri’s neck to tighten around his ass, and Yuuri hissed. This was far from educational. “Make me _work_ for it, darling.”

Yuuri stepped back. And he did so.

The problem with teaching sparring to Yuri Plisetsky, besides Viktor’s inability to be child-appropriate for longer than a moment with temptation so close at hand, was that Katsuki Yuuri’s fighting experience was overwhelmingly Japanese in origin. Barring a full-time position as the kid’s fighting instructor, there was not much Yuuri _could_ teach him that he had the capacity to understand. Objectively, Viktor was a better coach. But Plisetsky seemed to prefer Yuuri’s pedagogy to anyone else’s.

Viktor had told him he should be flattered by a child's infatuation. His voice when he had said it was distinctly embittered, though it was yet undecided on whether his petulance was at being an angry minor’s second pickings or at having to share Yuuri’s sparring time. Possibly both.

Viktor ducked underneath Yuuri’s left swing, used Yuuri’s momentum to knock him off balance and nearly onto his face.

But _nearly_ was not impressive enough to award him free range of Yuuri’s body like promised. Yuuri gasped at the sudden proximity of his face to the floor, but reflex saved him from the unflattering bruising. He caught himself before he hit the floor, was back on his feet before Viktor had the wherewithal to pin him to the mat.

“Good,” Yuuri managed, but Viktor was too winded from the effort to properly gloat. Instead, he nodded once, and tried again.

The problem with using Viktor to teach Yuri Plisetsky anything was that Viktor Nikiforov was a force of nature in himself, and Yuuri tended to get distracted by the deadly beauty of the latter when he ought to focus on the education of the former. Like now.

The punch stunned him, and Viktor took advantage of the way Yuuri listed on his feet and blinked heavily to catch him against his chest, wrap his arm around his throat and place his palm against the side of his head in a way that would let him break Yuuri’s neck quite easily, if that was his desire. Yuuri closed his eyes against the dizziness and tapped Viktor’s arm. Surrender.

And Viktor relented, but did not release him. Instead, his arm slid downward to wrap around Yuuri’s chest, his mouth brushing the damp hair plastered to Yuuri’s neck, and Yuuri leaned into him unconsciously. This, too, was what was dangerous about Viktor’s sparring. It so easily turned into something else.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what a good job I’ve done?” Viktor prompted softly, his fingertips trailing a line down Yuuri’s chest. Yuuri folded entirely into him and smiled.

“Not quite yet, love,” he murmured, and he felt the ensuing disappointed twist to Viktor’s mouth pressed against his neck. But Yuuri knew Viktor too well for that trap. A part of him, the part that was still breathless and dizzy and suddenly very much interested in this turn of events, wanted to indulge him. The rational part of him knew that indulging Viktor with praise was a sure way to never accomplishing anything further. He tended to get carried away when presented with positive reinforcement, Viktor did.

Instead, Yuuri entertained him briefly by tipping his chin upwards, giving his partner further access to the expanse of throat Yuuri possessed to be kissed, and Viktor seized such an opportunity with relish. His mouth worked over the skin on his neck, laying undeniable claim to what was his as he did so, and Yuuri closed his eyes.

“You’re getting much too distracted,” he murmured, as Viktor moved on to declare the entirety of Yuuri’s bare shoulder his own conquest. At the edge of the mats, Yuri Plisetsky made the type of gloriously disgusted sound that was a considered lost art among prepubescents. “Remember our audience, _anata.”_

“Mm.” His mouth ghosted over Yuuri’s shoulder blade, and Yuuri decided he must put an end to this before it destroyed him. Already, Yuuri was trembling with the effort of keeping still, the impossible task of keeping his hands to himself and his thoughts reasonably chaste. “Then don't tempt me with a word like that.”

“It's a perfectly innocent term,” Yuuri replied, his teeth clipping hard against each other. He wanted this, of course. But Yuuri’s salary was pointedly not dependent on how and when he slept with Viktor Nikiforov. That would make him a whore again, and Yuuri had been very clear about never wanting to revisit that facet of work, and about his terms of establishing a relationship in his workplace. It would not interfere in what Yuuri was really employed to do.

Hypothetically.

“I’m thinking,” Viktor murmured against his spine. Yuuri shivered at the sensation of his lips brushing skin, and Viktor laughed softly, knowingly. “Thinking about what I’d like my terms to be.”

“Save them.” Yuuri began to pull away, to get back to business, but Viktor’s hands drew him back. His fingers slid low over Yuuri’s hips as they did so, and again Yuuri clenched his teeth. This was hardly _fair_ of him. Yuuri was trying to work.

“I’m thinking,” Viktor repeated quietly, “after I best you, I want a shower.”

_“Viktor--”_ He could not finish the admonishment. Yuuri closed his eyes. He was going to kill him.

“Hmm?” The gentle sound, communicated physically by way Viktor’s cheek pressed against his back, made tremors erupt in Yuuri’s shoulders. Viktor hummed a melody Yuuri did not recognize and dragged his mouth across his spine, solely to torment him. “What do you think, love?”

“I _think,”_ Yuuri said tightly, “that you're very invested in your rewards for one who hasn't even accomplished anything yet.”

“A good businessman always considers the future,” Viktor said contemplatively. “And I'm an optimist, Katsuki Yuuri.”

Yuuri could take this no longer. It was breaching humiliation, and uncontrollable desire too. He could not endure both while attempting to be _rational_ as well.

So he gripped Viktor’s arm, which was slung possessively across his throat, and ducked, stepping behind his partner fluidly. Viktor gasped a laugh when Yuuri twisted his arm behind his back, muttered something vicious and pained when Yuuri kicked his legs out from beneath him, yanking his arm upwards as Yuuri did so. Executed more forcefully, Yuuri could pull his arm out of its socket with a move like that.

He didn't. Instead, he stepped back before him and offered a hand, and when Viktor opened his eyes and declared with a rapidly rising-falling-rising chest, _“Bastard,”_ Yuuri allowed himself a satisfied smirk.

“Consider the future, _anata,”_ he murmured, and Viktor accepted his hand, used it to pull himself to his feet. “Surely you know me well enough now--”

Pain exploded in his ribs, and Yuuri dropped to his knees before he realized the concession. His eyes were wide wide wide and that was hardly _fair_ was it, to hit him without warning like that and _god_ it hurt--

“Don’t dish it if you can't take it, Yura,” Viktor said smugly. A distinctly English turn of phrase. Yuuri was sure it was one of his own colloquialisms, spat back at him now. He narrowed his eyes, but he laughed too.

“Fuck you, Vitya.” But rather than offer a hand to pull him to his feet, Viktor took him by the wrist and twisted it behind his back, and Yuuri spat a curse as he forced his face to the mat. Katsuki Yuuri tapped out much too desperately for his own taste.

“That was unnecessary,” Yuuri gasped, his bangs flung into his face and sweat dripping into his eyes now. It took him several moments and incredible concentrated effort to sit back on his heels, and Viktor still did not offer him assistance. This was gloating. In Yuuri’s opinion, this type of disregard for an opponent was verging dangerously on disrespect. Clearly, Viktor was proving a point.

“But I pinned you,” Viktor Nikiforov reminded him, and Yuuri supposed he had. He knew what he wanted now, too.

“Yes.” He pressed the heels of his palms to his closed eyes. _“God._ Excellent job at that.”

Viktor sounded much too pleased. “Thank you.” This infatuation with praise was not new to Yuuri. Viktor Nikiforov was obsessed with being told how perfect he was, and Yuuri tended to indulge him too often in that respect. He suspected everyone tended to do so too often, and it had created a fucking monster.

“You're a pompous dick.”

“Mm.” Now Viktor offered him a hand, lifting him smoothly upwards and against his chest. “I prefer the compliments.”

“The praise kink is getting out of hand,” Yuuri replied scathingly in English, for young Plisetsky’s sake. His palm pressed hard against his shoulder, separating their bodies several centimeters. His opposite hand was still clasped with Viktor’s. Nikiforov blinked at the change in position, and then he laughed.

“Oh, not quite yet, darling. I’m still being perfectly chaste.” His fingers tightened around Yuuri’s, and he used his height and strength as leverage to spin Yuuri outward and back against him roughly. Unwittingly, Yuuri let him, again bending to Viktor Nikiforov’s will without even mild consideration of the consequences. He was so damningly in love with this man. It so often reduced him to a blinking, naive student again.

“Fighting,” Viktor said, his mouth close beside Yuuri’s ear but his voice pitched for Plisetsky’s attention, “is just choreography, kid. It’s nothing but ballet.”

Katsuki Yuuri laughed. Shifted easily so his back was pressed not against Viktor’s chest but his arm and leaned backwards into a low, low dip. Viktor indulged him this display, and Yuuri leaned so low that his loose hand brushed the slick rubber mat. Eyes closed, face now turned out to Yuri Plisetsky but the smile on his lips distinctly not for the child’s benefit, Yuuri qualified, “A bit more dangerous than ballet.”

“Not Russian ballet,” Viktor said, and Yuuri did not wonder if it was in jest. With any knowledge of Viktor Nikiforov’s worldly childhood tutelage, who was to say exactly _how_ deadly his ballet training had been? Given young Mila Babicheva’s professed genius at both dance and blades, both arts learned in the same studio at the hands of the same teacher, who could really argue _anything_ about the expansiveness of a Plisetsky education?

“Mm,” Yuuri said vaguely instead, and even at his supposed unawares he sensed with acute clarity when every muscle in Viktor Nikiforov’s body tensed. Yuuri smiled.

“For example,” Viktor drawled, and had Yuuri not been prepared he would have surely brought him to his knees with the way he pulled him suddenly upward and went for his sternum. “Something like this, whether friendly sparring or not, is based entirely in trust. Yuuri trusts me not to crush his windpipe--” And he did go for his throat, but Yuuri blocked the attack and backhanded him hard across the face. Breathlessly, Viktor laughed. Grabbed his wrist as the secondary hit came and twisted until Yuuri spat a curse in Japanese, until Yuuri swept his legs out from underneath him and Viktor pulled him down to the floor with him. “--and if we were truly enemies, he would trust me to bring my best to the table.”

“And respect,” Yuuri added, the two words a struggle as Viktor flipped him onto his back and pressed a knee to his chest. “For--” He couldn't breathe. He wondered how long Viktor was going to ride this power trip. “For friends and enemies.”

Viktor smiled down at him. His hair hung damp in his face, the glorious light to his expression becoming something otherworldly as Yuuri ran out of both oxygen and rationality. But he would rather pass out than consciously yield while on his back, and Viktor knew it. Yuuri was a proud thing.

“Of course.” Yuuri closed his eyes, and he felt it when Viktor looked upwards to speak to Plisetsky. “Katsuki Yuuri is very adamant about the honorable way to fight. Here, Yura, you do what you have to do. Fighting dirty is forgivable if you win.”

His hand was splayed on the mat beside Yuuri’s face, and Yuuri turned his head gently so his lips brushed Viktor’s wrist. He felt the involuntary tensing of muscle in his forearm, the fragile power Viktor held here sliding away as Yuuri wrapped his fingers around his elbow and yanked him downward and over, and then it was Yuuri on top and still panting but at least this was how it _should_ be. And, given his exhaustion it was hardly an advantage but at least now Viktor would not be so _smug--_

“Please don't teach him that,” Yuuri murmured, still breathless but only fractionally as much as Viktor Nikiforov. “I have a hell of a time scrubbing away your bad influence as it is.”

“Mm. Do you.” Viktor smiled beatifically up at him, and for a precious moment Yuuri forgot what they were doing. He was a damned teenager again, and Viktor was very beautiful, and it took only this fraction of a second for Viktor to grab him by the throat and throw him to the mat beside him and then Yuuri was beaten. Exhausted, bested, and pride bowed to the need to take a damn _breather_ because he was half certain he was dying right here and now.

“You haven't tapped out,” Viktor observed, still lying beside him and apparently making no effort to reinstate the sparring. “Are we continuing?”

“Fuck you.” Yuuri pushed his hair out of his eyes, then found his limbs suddenly too exhausted to remove his hand from where it sat heavy over his eyes. But recovery was easier with the dark illusion of privacy anyway. “I'm done.”

“Say it, then.”

And Yuuri scowled and cut his eyes at him, and found Viktor smiling. And he could not be angry with him when he looked like this, unfocused and wonderfully exhausted, his hair plastered to his temples and his eyes wide and earnest even as he tried for smug surety. Viktor tried very hard to impress him, and Yuuri knew it, even if Viktor himself did not. He appreciated the sentiment, but not always the execution.

He flung out his arms, his hand striking flat on Viktor’s chest, and announced sourly, “I yield. I’m done.”

“Not quite done, I think,” Viktor murmured, bringing Yuuri’s fingers to his mouth. “Dismiss the kid.”

“Don't--” Yuuri closed his eyes. This was the trouble with sleeping with one’s boss. The line between equity in the bedroom and insubordination in the field was so terribly unclear. “Yuri, you’re free to go.”

“You're both disgusting.” He heard Yuri scramble to his feet, the unimpressed sound he made at the sight of them both flat on the mats, Viktor with Yuuri’s hand still pressed to his mouth. “I learned nothing. Again. So thanks.”

“Pay better attention then,” Viktor replied. “Unless you’d prefer me just assigning Babicheva to kick the hell out of you every week. I admit it sounds entertaining.”

“Don't antagonize him,” Yuuri murmured, eyes still closed. He raised his voice. “Yuri, if you'd like to learn from me, you need to meet my expectations for self-discipline first. Until you can prove that you can do so, you will watch. And that is all. Understand?”

Yuri made a sound of glorious irritation. “That's not fair.”

“Mm. I don't care.” Viktor was doing distracting things with his mouth to Yuuri’s palm. Yuuri’s eyes flickered open and met Plisetsky’s gaze boredly. “I suggest meditation. It does wonders.”

Yuri snorted and stomped his foot petulantly. “What _ever.”_

“Who’s antagonizing him now,” Viktor murmured, amused, against his hand. The sensation of his lips on his palm made Yuuri shiver, and the latter smiled.

To Yuri Plisetsky, he ordered, “Get some rest. I’ll meet you here tomorrow morning. I do hope that you're respectful by then.”

Yuri muttered something that sounded like a vicious imitation of his accented voice, and Katsuki Yuuri raised his eyebrows. Noting this, Plisetsky apologized and quickly removed himself from the gym.

“I believe that's all the respect you’re wont to get, darling,” Viktor observed lightly. Yuuri worried the inside of his cheek with his teeth. “And I thought you weren't giving him lessons?”

“I’m not.” He closed his eyes. Yuuri wanted a nap. Perhaps Nikiforov would accept a rain check on his terms of victory. “He meets me every morning for meditation already. I confess it hasn't done much lasting good.”

“Still. I’m impressed.” And he did sound impressed. Yuuri knew it was a laudable thing, his taming of the Plisetsky heir. But he would not allowing himself to be proud of it until the child actually learned something. “He must be even more infatuated than I’d thought.”

“Stop that.” Viktor paused in his exploration of the sensitive skin of Yuuri’s inner arm with his mouth, and Yuuri hissed softly. “Not that, love.” The feeling of his tongue lingering at his wrist’s pulse was positively wonderful. It made words difficult. “Do what--what you'd like with that.”

“Mm.” Viktor complied, sounding bemused. He shifted on the mat so to better view Yuuri’s expression when he ran his teeth up the course of a vein in his arm. “I’m just saying, darling, that no one here has succeeded in getting Yuri Plisetsky to shut up for several minutes in twelve years. That's a victory in itself.”

Yuuri gasped lightly. His head tipped back involuntarily, and Viktor’s opportunist tendencies seized the opening to his throat. Yuuri did not object to his shifted weight on top of him, nor the way his other hand slid upwards along his chest. He felt the need to defend his course of action with Yuri Plisetsky, and spoke even as Viktor plotted fierce kisses along his neck.

“He’s angry. I’m not--” And here his gasp was little but a desperate intake of breath, and Yuuri curled his fingernails into Viktor’s shoulder. “I'm not giving him the means to…hurt himself or others. While he's that angry.”

“You may wait longer than you know if you believe you're going to outlast that anger, my love.”

“I’ll survive.” Yuuri knew this type of anger. He didn't know where Yuri Plisetsky, privileged heir of the entire damn European continent, got off believing he was so viciously wronged as to internalize it, but that was besides the point. Yuuri had worked with his own emotional baggage long enough to be familiar with that of others.

Viktor sat back on his heels, still straddling Yuuri’s hips, and smiled. Yuuri’s eyes fluttered closed as Viktor traced the lines of ink beneath his ribs with a light hand.

“I only object,” Viktor said quietly, “because I was not invited to these lessons.”

Yuuri smiled. Tipped his chin upwards to say, “You, _anata?_ Silent and still for more than a moment? I’ll never believe it.”

Viktor made a vague sound that coincided with agreement. “Silence strikes me as overrated.”

“Mm. Clearly.”

_“Yuuri.”_ He was so damn _whiny._ It was increasingly evident as the months passed from where Plisetsky derived that trait. Yuuri raised his eyebrows. “Don’t be cruel.”

Katsuki Yuuri stretched his arms upward, and Viktor allowed him to link them around his neck. Viktor pulled him gently against his chest, and Yuuri murmured, “Oh, but I do it so well.”

Lowly, Viktor Nikiforov laughed. “You do other things just as well, darling. Don't become predictable by relying on just that.”

_“Never,”_ Yuuri vowed against his neck, and he felt the shiver that sang through Viktor’s body in very intimate places on his own. He smiled, nipping at the skin beneath his ear with his teeth. “I believe I owe you a demonstration of one of those other talents now, don't I? For your excellent sparring today.”

Viktor blinked. The low pitch to Yuuri’s voice, the sensation of his arms around his neck and his bare chest flush against Viktor’s, seemed to have robbed him of both poise and speech. Softly, he smiled. “I’d begun to worry,” he murmured with some strain, “that--that you’d forgotten.”

“I’d never forget a promise like that.” Perhaps Viktor’s weakness for receiving praise was directly linked to Yuuri’s weakness for giving it. He was certainly one hell of an enabler. “Especially not when you deserve it so.”

“Yura--”

Yuuri lifted his head from the crook of his neck and tilted it so he could met Viktor’s gaze. “I’m very tired, darling. Let’s not waste time, yes? I’d hate to disappoint.”

“You have yet to do that, Katsuki Yuuri.” Viktor looked at him, the barest suggestion of a hungry smirk on his lips. “I don't believe you can.”

Yuuri smiled. Pressed a finger to Viktor’s lips and used his other hand to pull his hair gently from his face. Viktor followed the movement with his head rapturously. “Save the flattery, Vitya. I’m not the one who needs it.”

“Of course.” Viktor Nikiforov knew what motivated a man like Katsuki Yuuri too. He bowed his head. “Whatever you say, love.”

Yuuri's pride did not often allow for anything but careful continuous practice after losing a fight. He was Okukawa-trained, and there was little room for anything but the endless, gnawing need to _improve_ when faced with failure. That was how his business had won its international success in the first place, after all. That was how they had become known across the globe as ruthless.

But Yuuri thought he was going to enjoy this loss very much.

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested by ahumanlady on tumblr, and I'm finally making due on my promise to write and post it two weeks later. I do accept requests either here or on tumblr (though I reserve the right to procrastinate them however much I'd like because I'm also horrible).
> 
> This scene is set within the Ivory and Gold universe, an in-progress mafia revenge fic I'm also writing, though I regret to say that I'm taking a break for a few more weeks before updating said work. I'm not going to post a definite date for me to be back and in action, for personal reasons, but I won't be gone too terribly long! I may still work on other things, and accept suggestions, but Ivory and Gold in particular requires an extensive amount of energy/research/time that I won't be able to spare in the coming weeks. (All that drug dealing information isn't actually common knowledge to me, y'know.) Feel free to contact me on tumblr (fortinbra.tumblr.com) with any questions or concerns you might have! 
> 
> As always, few free to leave comments or kudos! Thank you for reading!
> 
> xx


End file.
